Abnormally Attracted to Sin
by rambling procrastinator
Summary: Her eyes linger on his mouth and she crosses her arms, feeling the need to hold onto something. "They say it's bad for you." "'They' say a lot of things," Kurosai drawls."That wasn't much of a reform speech." A oneshot of Kuro/Teru vignettes about smoking


For the rounds_of_kink community on LJ.

Trying to format this, I'm reminded of how much of a pain in the ass is. My lovely right-aligned font won't display no matter how I code it. Sigh. *clings to LJ*

**Prompt**: and they say it's bad for you

**Kink**: oral fixation, smoke fetish, intent watching possibly leading to explicit acts

**Notes/Warnings**: het, spoilers specifically for chapter 4, suggestiveness between a 16/17-year-old and a young 20sth who is about as mature as a teenager so it really all balances out right? .; Also, smoking in Japan doesn't carry anywhere near the stigma it does in the US; the majority of people in Japan smoke, and this fic reflects that, so _**if sexualised smoking or any kind of smoking-is-hot vibe bothers you, then don't read this**_, or at least, don't rant about it in the comments. Opinions/behaviour of the characters don't necessarily reflect the opinions/practices of the author, etc. Kudos to Tori Amos for the title of this because I'm not original and thanks to lovetoujours for betaing.

_

* * *

"A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure.  
It is exquisite and leaves one dissatisfied.  
What more can one want?"_

Lord Henry, in "Dorian Grey", by Oscar Wilde.

* * *

_Daisy,_

When she first met him, she'd been intimidated, and maybe, _maybe_ even petrified, though Teru will never admit it to anyone. To be fair, most of it was Kurosaki's fault for carrying her off the way he did (and she hopes he goes bald for it). He'd been so quiet and moody but for the times he barked orders at her, his hair seeming to stand on end like a disgruntled cat's. As he smoked and lounged nearby, she'd been unable to resist the urge to fill the silence with the useless sort of talk that comes from overly stressed nerves.

_It's Teru._

And he'd responded. He'd responded without laughing, or making fun of her, or saying trivial and useless things. Well, he responded that way most of the time. There was a brain under all that hair that had somehow survived the bleaching process, and there was a thoughtful, compassionate man under his rebellious, grouchy exterior.

_I've met someone._

There are silences, now, where the only sounds are the low hum of the occasional car, mothers talking to each other with the gritty static noise of stroller wheels rolling over pavement. Sometimes there are birds, but mostly, there is the dragging rustle of her hands sorting through plants to unroot weeds, of broom bristles on the ground, of the wind in the trees accompanied by the metallic snip of her shears as she prunes them. They are comfortable silences, where the smell of nicotine blends with the smell of earth and green and life.

_Most of the time I think he pretends to be tougher than he really is, __to hide how much he cares, but sometimes . . ._

She times her breaths with his, but never for more than three.

_Inhale._

Sometimes he focuses inward, face unreadable but for vague splashes of emotion that tug at the muscles and lines of his face, a hint of sadness around his eyes, or perhaps thinned out irritation in his mouth.

Sometimes he's already looking out, though buildings and fences block his view of the horizon. Teru wonders if smoking is a substitute for the escape he obviously craves, for his poses in the chair, against the wall are studies in relaxation: his shoulders and arms are too tight, like a student waiting in anticipation for a bad grade.

_Pause_, savor the taste, the—she doesn't know what. Teru imagines the smell of burning dried leaves beneath her nose, thinks of words like acrid and herbal and tang. It's not unpleasant, the smell that permeates the shirt she wears over her uniform. She surreptitiously turns her head to the side and breathes deeply, her nose to her shoulder.

_Exhale_.

Slow, relaxed, smooth. Pensive. Kurosaki's gaze is always outwards with his breath, as though his lungs push it away from himself, pupils dilating and contracting on some point in the distance.

_Sometimes I wonder if, underneath his kindness, __there's another layer, of real cruelty, and ruthlessness._

Three breaths is enough for him to notice her idleness, for him to come back to himself and feel her eyes on him. She guiltily rushes back to her—well, _his—_task, the back of her neck heating up because she isn't practiced at deception.

_I'm not as good as you think, because I don't care._

She doesn't send the email. But she doesn't erase it, either.

_

* * *

_

_Daisy,_

"When did you start smoking?" She wonders how many packs he goes through in a day. It's not _quite_ chain-smoking; time has passed since his last cigarette, the one he lit when she first came out for her daily dose of slavery.

_It's Teru._

Kurosaki grunts, shrugs, pauses in the act of lighting, his lips still pursed around the filter, poised to suck. "When I was younger than you."

_Lately I've been wondering about smoking._

"Oh." It fits his image, though she can just as easily imagine him fibbing to preserve the picture of rebellious youth.

Lighting the cigarette, he takes the first drag. His eyes close when he exhales and his head tips back, resting against the back of the chair he's sitting in. She can almost imagine standing behind him, bending over. His lips purse as he exhales smoke, and right then, more than the times he's been close enough to do it, intruding into her personal space, she wants to kiss him.

_I wonder why people do it._

"You gonna tell me it's a filthy habit?" He mumbles around the cigarette.

Her eyes linger on his mouth and she crosses her arms, feeling the need to hold onto something. "They say it's bad for you."

_I wonder if it's one of things that must be experienced to be understood._

" 'They' say a lot of things," Kurosai drawls, lazily reaching up and taking the cigarette away from his mouth. She admires the casual grace, the shape of his arm, the length of his fingers as they dangle away from the armrest, almost carelessly holding the cigarette between them. "That wasn't much of a reform speech."

_I think I want to try it._

Her thumb erases the email before she can even think of what she was intending to write next. Shameful, it's shameful. She's not a good girl at all.

"There are worse habits," Teru replies as she turns back to the tree. She watches his lips curve from the corner of her eye. She's always been good at finding the right answer.

* * *

_Daisy,_

A splash of white on the coffee table catches her eye: his cigarettes. He'd forgotten his cigarettes. She imagines the sadly empty pocket of his janitor's uniform, bulging limply around the ghost of the box. She wonders if he notices the lack of weight, the lack of pressure, if that rectangular area of his chest is more sensitive to air that creeps through his clothes. It must feel like being naked. _Naked_.

_It's Teru._

The Kurosaki in her head is abruptly shirtless, swearing at her and clinging to himself as a gust of frigid wind blows his hair to the side.

_I—_

Her cheeks are red, from amusement, from embarrassment—from—

Teru sits primly on the sofa and stares at the box, willing the image out of her head.

She should be doing homework. She should be doing a lot of things.

"Go bald, Kurosaki," she whispers, and feels slightly better.

The little white box taunts her. She imagines opening it, taking out one of the white cylinders, putting it to her lips, sucking air through it, just a little, tasting it. She wouldn't light it—Kurosaki would definitely be the sort to notice if even one was missing, and it's an unhealthy habit. And then she'd tuck it back into the box. Later, maybe much later, or maybe soon, he'd take it between his fingers and put the filter between his lips, covering the same spot, a dirty little secret of an indirect kiss. Would he know? Would he taste her? Would the place where her mouth had been feel different?

She would watch him, and _she'd_ know.

Teru licks her lips, tastes paper and nicotine. Her fingers are already around the box, flicking the lid open with casual ease, and she feels a keen sense of disappointment.

He hadn't forgotten it at all.

The box is empty.

She closes her phone.


End file.
